


Giblets

by gutrots



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Cannibalism, Food Issues, Gen, Gore, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, MCU trash meme, Not Beta Read, Not safe for vegans, So many references to meat, Soz, Starvation, Steve/Bucky is only implied, Torture, Violence, autocannibalism, mentions of a lot of awful stuff that actually happened during WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 09:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14871317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: Bucky and his Soviet friends bring mystery meat to a whole new level.





	Giblets

The cell is cold. Colder than Austria, colder than the freight train. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes presses himself into a corner, curling his one good arm around himself to create a semblance of warmth. The throbbing pain in what remains of his left is drowned out by the incessant buzzing at the back of his brain, demanding rest after a madman’s rush of adrenaline.

Bucky wraps what remains of his blue jacket over his shivering form and resolutely refuses to focus on the rapidly crusting blood on the tattered sleeve. Quietly, he reminds himself that he had survived worse. He will not be defeated by the cold.

It has been five days. Five days of drifting in and out of consciousness, of pain flaring and fading like the ebb and flow. He has to consciously remind himself to relax his muscles when his spine protests against the bare floor. Has to remind himself to breathe when the smell of decaying flesh sets in entirely too close to his nostrils.

So far, there has been no sign of attempted rescue. Few signs of life in whatever facility he is being currently held in. He begins dreading the worst – being left to rot alive in a basement somewhere along the Western front. The fear dispels when an anonymous hand pushes a chipped enamel mug through the bars of the cell, sloshing water on the dirty floor. The mug is decorated with a faded floral pattern, and the hand ends at the olive green of an army issue trench coat. It is only when he starts to hungrily gulp down the water that he realises how dry his mouth feels, lips chapped and cracked and tongue like a wad of cotton. At first, the ice cold water tastes like a sliver of heaven in whatever hellhole he is being held in. But as it settles in his stomach and clears his mind from the haze of frost and infection, the hunger sets in. He has not eaten in five days. The air is still freezing cold, but the burning pain of festering flesh in what remains of his arm makes the entire left half of his body feel ablaze.

Another day passes. No food is brought to the cell and Bucky cannot resist the urge to gnaw at the fingers of his right hand. His hungry mouth latches on the knuckles of skinny fingers, craving an illusion of sustenance. Teeth scrape and tug, failing to come up with anything to chew on. He moves on to his palm, absent-mindedly worrying thin folds of skin between his lips, dragging his tongue along the fleshy mound connecting the thumb to the wrist. His nail beds quickly become ragged, dirt from underneath brittle fingernails mixing with blood flowing from abused cuticles.

Bucky thinks of emaciated street dogs roaming back alleys behind the docks late at night. Hoping for a salvaged bone discarded by the chef at that Ukrainian bistro on the corner after he is done boiling it to extract rich, flavourful stock for the next day’s soup. Saliva drips from the corner of his mouth as he sucks and chews, grinding his jaws to trick his hungry brain into thinking that he is providing nutrition to his neglected body. Eventually, he tears off tiny pieces of skin, holds them between his teeth with reverence reserved for communion wafers. They don’t feel like anything going down his esophagus into his stomach, and he isn’t sure how long he can keep trying to fool himself like this. He is so fucking hungry.

Eleven days in, a single bug skitters up the damp wall. The faint pitter-patter of its tiny legs on bare stone is enough to wake Bucky from his restless sleep. The fever might be making him woozy, but the hunger sharpens his reflexes. Gaze trained on the tiny black dot skittering up the opposite wall of the cell, he braces himself on his knees and lurches out with his remaining arm in front of him, catching the insect in his palm. As the bug thrashes inside his closed fist, his mind drifts back to the horror stories European troops would spin about Hitler’s camps. He recalls talk of countless skeletal figures with hollow faces and ashen skin, staring off in the distance, waiting for the end to their torment. Malnutrition turning into starvation turning into desperation, digging though latrines for chunks of undigested food and scouring for vomit brought on by omnipresent sickness.

When he lifts the bug to his lips, not a single flicker of disgust crosses his mind. All that matter is that the hunger is sated. He bites down hard to stop the sensation of little legs wriggling on his tongue, wings fluttering uselessly against the roof of his mouth. A viscous substance gushes out of the chitin shell and a taste like fresh soil overwhelms his mouth. It is nowhere near enough to push back the stabbing pain in his stomach, but he can almost make believe that the hunger subsides.

The following day no more bugs pass through the cell, and Bucky is back with nothing to deceive his twisting insides with. And so he returns to biting on his abused fingers, hoping that the sensation will at least fool his brain enough to let him rest for a while. The hunger makes the pain in the stump of this arm fade into background noise, replacing it with an unbearable tightness in his sunken abdomen. As he puts his index finger to his cracked lips blunt teeth reopen half-healed scabs, sucking on the slow trickle of warm blood and rolling crusted flakes of torn skin on his tongue. Even though it provides no solution to the overwhelming pangs of hunger, the motion is comforting. Bucky licks and sucks, careful not to make too much noise.

Suddenly, a treacherous thought invades upon his tired mind. He wonders what it would feel like, to take a bite. To taste his own flesh on his tongue. His fingers might be all bone and abused skin, but there is still meat left where his thumb connects to the palm. There is softness on the underside of his upper arm. In the crook of the elbow. As he ponders those dangerous, desperate thoughts, a soldier approaches the door of the cell.

 

* * *

 

The soldier is a tall, gaunt man with close-cropped hair and patches of blonde stubble climbing upon sharp cheekbones. He looks like he too might have missed an essential number of meals, his uniform hanging loosely on his narrow frame. Behind him, a group of maybe four similarly weathered figures talks in hushed voices in a language Bucky does not understand. The red star on the sleeve of the soldier’s olive green coat stands out even in the permanent semi-darkness of the corridor. _Soviets,_ Bucky realizes.

His mind is instantly drawn to the haunting whispers overheard from men coming back from the Eastern front. Tales of sparse rations, frostbite and the horror that is being on the verge of death when your starving comrades lurk around like a pack of vultures. Stories of feral, vicious deserters roaming the countryside driven by hunger and hunger only. Like bone-thin wolves trying to make it through a bad winter. And amongst all this hopelessness and desolation, an occasional, suspiciously merry, bubbling pot of meat stew.

The Soviet’s gaze, fluctuating between frontline emptiness and well-concealed amusement fixes itself on the stump of Bucky’s left arm. With a brief gesture he commands his men to stand back as he crouches down to be eye level with his captive. His comrades obey, even though he does not have any bars on his uniform to formally distinguish him as their superior. It is perhaps the quiet air of nonchalance with an underlying promise of viciousness that makes them follow his lead.

‘ _My, my, my, what do we have here?_ ’ he mocks.

His voice is deceptively soft, dripping honey and venom in equal measures. Even despite his strong, sing-songy accent it is immediately obvious that his grasp of the English language is comfortably confident. He takes in Bucky’s shivering form, his pale face and ruined clothing, the stench of decay permeating the tiny room.

‘ _The higher ups have forgotten all about you, haven’t they, soldatik? Locked you up like a dog in a cage and left you to starve. Now, come here, don’t be shy. But don’t bite, or we won’t play nice’_ , he beckons.

As if Bucky would have any strength left for foul play. The men don’t seem to be in a much better shape than he is, stick-thin and sickly looking, and even though him being held captive goes against everything he might know of the American-Soviet alliance, he is willing to give them the benefit of doubt.

After all, aren’t they all victims of the same machine? Some kind of giant steamroller ran by old, bitter politicians, crushing the lives of brave young men all over the globe. He thinks back to his childish enthusiasm, to the pride he felt when he first put on his dress uniform.

How foolish. It only took a couple of weeks on the frontline, amongst burning cities and terrified civilians, shell-shocked soldiers reduced to wide-eyed children in crooked helmets and ill-fitting shoes, to make him hate the war and everything it stands for. To make him feel like they are all nothing but rabid dogs, put in a fighting ring and forced to bite and claw at each other while their owners place bets and turn profit.

With grim determination he crawls towards the crouching man, doing his best to ignore the screaming pain in his mangled limbs and hollow stomach.

‘ _Look at you. Handsome, strong. Why would we let all of that go to waste?_ ’ the Soviet soldier wonders.

His musings are interrupted by a loud rumble of Bucky’s insides. The man laughs briefly, and continues as if he was a gracious host finally receiving a hungry guest at his dinner party.

_'Patience now, don’t you worry, you’ll be getting fed any time now. Now step aside a little, and I will come in and see what I can do about that appetite of yours. Have my friends join us as well. Okay, Amerikanets?’_

Bucky isn’t dumb. He knows not to mistake the offer for kindness. He had learned the hard way that there is no kindness in war. No kindness for the hungry, the weary, the desperate. The righteous war is righteously lawless, and any payment will do for a shred of comfort. He has seen blue-eyed blonde-haired God-fearing Aryans taken captive, offering their bodies in exchange for water. He has seen his fellow soldiers dragging prisoners into the woods, coming back dishevelled and satisfied, the emaciated, dirty hands of their captives clutching at a stale slice of bread or a sock with fewer holes than most, dignity be damned.

At least he’s had practice with Steve. He knows what to expect and how to make it good, so maybe if he plays his cards right he will be rewarded not only with food but with fresh bandages for his arm too.

He is startled by the screeching sound of the cell door opening, the man and his comrades making their way in with near-silent footsteps. The tiny room instantly feels overcrowded, but he will not panic now. Not when the odds of survival are finally turning in his favor. He sits up on his knees, straightens his back as much as the pain will allow, and hopes that his signature smile will not lose any of its charm in the company of unwashed hair and decaying flesh.

The leader of the Soviets smiles back, and it’s all teeth.

The ambiance of tentative camaraderie dissipates into thin air as two of the soldiers take him by surprise, wrenching his good arm behind his back and holding him by the neck. He tries to fight back, to shake them off, but there is no fight left in him. Any sudden motion makes his head spin, bile rising to his throat despite the emptiness in his stomach, and so he decides to play along. Maybe they just like it rough. It’s nothing he cannot endure. The leader of the group has his hands on Bucky’s face, prying his jaw open like he's a stubborn horse that won’t accept the bite.

Wordlessly, the man inspects his teeth. Seemingly content with what he finds, he slides his fingers into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky picks up on the cue, dutifully licking and sucking, trying his best to ignore the uncomfortable pressure on the back of his neck and imagine a different set of bony fingers on his lips. The moment seems to go on forever until the commander removes his fingers with an obscene wet _pop._

 _‘Hungry, aren’t you, suka?_ ’ he taunts.

Bucky isn’t sure if the man is referring to food or sex now, but he finds it the best course of action to agree, since both should eventually yield the same result.

‘ _Yes, sir’_ , he answers, hoping that addressing the man as a superior will afford him better treatment.

 _‘Good_ ’ the officer replies.

Surprisingly enough, he then deviates from the well-known script Bucky is expecting. He makes no motion to pull unbutton his fly, and the long coat he is wearing means that Bucky cannot see if the man is even hard underneath the stiff woollen fabric of his trousers. Maybe he will have his men use Bucky, enjoy the scene as it unfolds in front of him without infringing upon his own morals. A sense of dread settles in Bucky’s stomach as the man gives a curt nod, and two of his comrades, standing soundless guard behind his back, pull out their knives.

The soldiers make quick work of the tattered fabric of Bucky’s left sleeve and the stained bandages underneath. Once the dirty fabric is off, a stench like nothing Bucky has ever smelled before fills the air and makes him choke for breath. The arm looks like a slab of meat that has been left out of the icebox for too long. It smells like a New York back alley on a warm day.

Like the scraps that might as well constitute the key ingredient of Coney Island hot dogs. Like a bloated corpse pulled out of East River that one day on the docks.

The shoddily applied stitches seem ready to burst, barely holding together sickly pink flesh. Meat like badly cut pork chops is pulled tight, shiny with infection, oozing diluted blood along its surface. Flaps of remaining skin have been stitched together into a deformed stump ending just short of the elbow, with crude dark lines that remind Bucky of his sisters’ first attempts at sewing. Mottled greens and dirty browns stain the lines of angry red scabs but the edges of the wound are a yellowish white, rivulets of pus spilling where the knives have grazed skin through bandages.

The Soviet’s steadfast gaze tells Bucky that this is not the worst the man has seen.

Heedless of the mushy gore of Bucky’s skin a soldier closes his hand around the end of the stump, holding it in place. Stitches burst underneath his fingers, fluids escaping their confines in the body with a wet squelch. The man’s digits sink into the pliant meat as if it is wet sand at a New Jersey beach, the puddle of blood and pus on the floor forming a matching ocean.  

Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head and just as he is about to pass out from the pain, a sharp slap on his right cheek brings him back to reality. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the glint of a knife looking for purchase on soft, slippery flesh. Once the hand wielding it finds a spot that is firm enough to cut, it presses slightly and takes off a sliver of meat.

Just like Bucky’s da peeling apples on a warm spring day. Old Mr Berkovich preparing cold cuts for sale at the deli. Steve sharpening his pencils.

The knife goes through his arm like it is softened butter, yielding an even strip of skin and muscle. Bucky screams, and the Soviet officer uses this to his advantage, holding Bucky’s jaws open.

 _‘So hungry, weren’t you? And thin like a baby deer that lost its mother in the woods. We’ll give you something to eat. And don’t forget to chew’_ , he says, and his lackey throws the strip of flesh into Bucky’s mouth.

The officer’s grip relents and Bucky instinctively closes his jaw, only to realize his mistake and furiously attempt to spit out the piece of rancid flesh. It is too late though, and a strong hand clamps over his mouth. Another one squeezes at his throat, giving the sliver of skin nowhere to escape. He is forced to chew, to learn the taste of his own decaying skin. It is salty like preserved meats and sour like spoiled pork.

The texture reminds him of giblets.

Eventually, he is allowed to swallow.

 _‘Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?’_ the Soviet asks, and Bucky can’t bring himself to answer.

 _‘Big boy like you, though, that won’t be enough for a proper meal’_.  

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they are done, there is almost no flesh left on Bucky's arm. The soldiers are chatting idly and trading jokes in their native language, like a family carving a roast suckling pig for a holiday dinner. They dangle strips of flesh over his head and make him beg for them like he is a dog under their festive table. He swallows each one dutifully, thankful for the smooth slide down his parched throat.

The taste becomes more bearable as they reach healthy tissue, no longer reminiscent of rotting meat in a back alley dumpster. The yellow-white bone sticking out of his shoulder looks almost comical, a walking advertisement for turkey legs at the state fair. He hates to admit it, but his stomach is no longer twisted in excruciating pain.

For the first time in twelve days, he does not feel like he is going to starve.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually another group of soldiers arrives, taking him to a medical facility. He falls asleep to the sound of a saw steadily making its way through bone. Under sedation, Bucky dreams.

He dreams of his maiden aunt and her suburban home, enchanted and surreal. A far away land shrouded in greenery, so foreign to an inner city boy like himself. Of lace doilies and antique teacups, and his ma’s frown as she makes him apologize for pulling a disgusted face when steak tartare is served at dinnertime.

He dreams of his eighteenth birthday, ma in the kitchen with her floral apron on and jet black hair up in a neat bun, making burgers. Red chunks of beef falling into the meat grinder and flowing out of the other end to the rhythm of the screeching cranking of the handle. Nothing but funny pink squiggles forming a wreath at the bottom of a bowl.

He dreams of Steve at the opposite end of a table, dining to celebrate finally having a place of their own. The apartment is dingy and full of draughts and the coal-heated stove in the corner of the room is barely suitable for preparing a full meal, but somehow they manage. Bucky says a toast, and Steve raises a glass to his chapped, pink lips. Blood pools on the plate when Bucky cuts into his steak, its rosy red as sweet as Stevie's mouth on his later that night.

He dreams of the Polish widow from downstairs, her tired smile and shaky hands as she presses coins into his hand and asks him to run to the butcher's two streets down to get her some giblets.

He wakes up screaming.

 

* * *

 

 

Years later, after Sergeant Barnes and the Winter Soldier and the Asset and the nameless ghost have all been laid to rest, Bucky and Steve are walking down a crowded New York street, holding hands and chatting idly. The outing is a mundane one, merely a stroll around the neighbourhood and a quick trip to the grocery store, as plums are finally in season.

A gust of warm breeze carries a rich scent from a cart on the corner where a queue is steadily growing in length. The vendor is a middle-aged Arabic man with a kind face and a booming laugh. His hands move quickly between ladles, pots, and pans as he packs styrofoam containers full of crisp salads and steaming rice, drizzling them with colourful sauces. On top of the fixings he lays piles of thinly sliced slivers of meat.

Pulling his hand free of Steve’s grasp, Bucky _runs_.


End file.
